A Perfect Circle
by WhiteRabbit52
Summary: After the school shooting, Tate doesn't die and is sent to a mental hospital. He's there for ten years until he meets Violet, a nurse who works there. He becomes obsessed with her. He is convinced that she is in love with him but how much of it is true and how much of it is just in his head?
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own American Horror Story

A/N: This is my first AHS fic. I'm branching out into multiple fandoms. Yay. If you read my sasunaru/sasusaku Naruto fanfiction, I'm sorry for the delay on my other story. I just had to get this out. Also, this was inspired by a song called The Nurse who loved me by Perfect Circle. If you don't know them, look them up because they're amazing.

Tate had been in the Asylum for at least ten years now. He used to be one of those 'highly unstable' patients but, somehow, he was better now. They had moved him to a more public ward. He could speak to people there. He was allowed to play cards with the other patients. Mostly, it was an improvement but now he had to go to group therapy.

"So what made you go crazy?" they'd ask him.

He would shrug and say, "A house."

Tate was in an out of a drug state most of the time. Time didn't seem like much of a factor here so he was never able to pinpoint the exact moment that _she _came into his life.

She blazed like a orchard on fire and he was instantly obsessed with her, before he even knew her name, before he even saw her face.

It was the hands, he decided. Those hands attached to those wrists. And the arms, those slim arms attached to those shoulder blades that moved like wings.

She wore a nurses uniform. It was white and stiff. She didn't belong in it, Tate decided. She should be naked and free. Her bare skin should kiss the air. He should be able to kiss her skin. He only half remembered the first time he saw her because he had been drugged out of his mind, as if he wasn't already out of his mind. Somehow, he preferred it because than she had been all texture. It was like she had been made of nothing but light. He remembered the smell of her when she walked into the room but not her face, not the way she walked. When she leaned over to inject the needle into his spotted forearm, he felt the tips of her hair briefly drift over his skin. She smelt like ink and dust and strong tea. She smelt of old books. Her hair was like lavender and her skin, her goddamn skin, was like satin and silk and everything that had ever made Tate feel good.

She was poison. She was obsession. She was what he used to kill the time.

That night he jacked off to the thought of her. Even though he couldn't recall her face, he came just from the texture of her skin. He decided she was a virgin. She would bite her lip when he touched her, his fingers would softly drift across her warm sex, and she would moan. He would make her gasp for breath with the pressure of his lips on the right place.

He wanted her to want him. He needed her to need him. He began to live for the days he would see her, when she would come in and change an IV drip or hand him a new set of pills. He only ever took the pills she gave him. If another nurse gave him pills, he'd hide it under his tongue then spit it out when they weren't looking but with her, it was different. He trusted her and anything she gave him. When the numbing high set in and he began to drift off to sleep, he always knew that he would dream of her.

She had been more helpful to him by just being in the same room as him than eight psychiatrists had been in ten years. In her presence, he almost felt sane. He felt coherent. He even felt guilt about what he had done.

One day she walked in and Tate couldn't keep his eyes off her. His eyes watched her move around the room. At first, she didn't notice then she looked up, saw his dark eyes haunting her and looked down, embarrassed. It was adorable. When she looked up again and he was still staring, she said.

"You're staring." It was a fact. They both knew it. Clearly her question was, why?

"Yes," He answered anyway.

"Well, stop it. Its making me feel uncomfortable."

"I can't stop."

"And why is that?"

"What's your name?"

She blinked then said, "Violet."

"You're so beautiful. I can't take my eyes off you."

Her eyes went wide, she blushed and looked away. Could a human really be so hauntingly adorable?

"But you know, right? You know how beautiful you are. You know the affect you have on me."

She looked at him. Her brown eyes glistening in shock.

"Um, I should go."

Tate made to grab her wrist but he was shackled to the sides of the bed. He tried to wrench himself free but the bounds wouldn't give. He struggled and the more he did, the more he realised how trapped he was. He started feeling claustrophobic. How long had he been here? In this place, without her?

His breathing quickened and he could hear his own heart beat echo dully through his veins. Throughout his panic attack, she was just leaving. She was fading away like air.

"No! Violet! Violet!" He shouted after her. There were dark shapes oozing out of the walls, whispering dark thoughts on ethereal tongues. They were his mother, all the kids he had killed at that school. They were after her. Everything he had ever done wrong was going to hurt the one thing he had done right.

"VIOLET!"

then people were holding him in place, holding him down.

"He's having a fit," he heard someone say over the sound of their own heart beat.

"You have to help her. She's going to die. I think I'm going to kill her," He said frantically.

"Just relax, Mr Langdon."

"No, you don't understand."

Then a needle dipped in and out of his arm and he instantly became numb and relaxed. He didn't understand. What had just happened? Why had he panicked like that? There were no dark shadows anymore and Tate wasn't sure if there ever really was.

The next day, he was in his latest psychiatrists' office. He was wearing a threadbare jumper. He hooked the sleeves over his thumbs and sat crossed legged on the plushy armchair.

"Do you want to tell me about your seizure yesterday?" asked his psychiatrist.

Tate shrugged, "I don't really remember what happened."

"You were calling out one of the nurses name," the psychiatrist stated, "Violet."

"She was in danger."

"From what?"

"I think it was me," Tate said and his voice cracked, "I don't want to hurt her."

"Yes, she's very special," the psychiatrist nodded, "Do you like her?"

"She's special," Tate repeated, "I can trust her."

"And you can't trust the other nurses?"

Tate shook his head.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

There was silence for a bit then Tate said, "She's in love with me."

"Excuse me?"

"She loves me. I can see it in her eyes. She's completely and utterly in love with me."

"Have you spoken to her?"

Tate laughed, "Of course I have. She told me her name... Violet."

There was silence for a moment then Tate grabbed his blonde curls in his hair.

"I don't know. I may have been hallucinating. I don't know what's real any more. It's all so confused."

The psychiatrist smiled sympathetically and it made Tate want to rip his throat out.

"It's okay," he said, "we're here to help."

"No, this place made me like this. I've spent my whole life in haunted houses that are always driving me insane."

"This place isn't haunted."

Tate smiled bitterly, "Then why are there so many ghosts?"

It was awhile before he saw Violet again. He was sitting in the rec room and she began to hand out pills in little paper cups. Tate's eyes followed her until she got to him. She handed him a paper cup and Tate accepted it like it was champagne.

"Open your mouth," she said sweetly, "I need to check if you swallowed your pills."

Tate opened his mouth, lifting his tongue. He had nothing to hide, not from her. She looked at him and smiled. Tate realised that he would kill for that smile.

"You have everything I need," Tate said and held up the empty paper cup, "Pills in a little cup."

She laughed, "Aren't you charming?"

"Only for you," he said honestly but she must have thought he was making another charismatic joke.

"well, thank you, Mr Langdon."

"Please, call me Tate."

She moved away and Tate's eyes followed her. He whispered to himself, his lips barely parted,

"She's falling hard for me. I can see it in her eyes. She acts just like a nurse, with all the other guys."

A/n: Some of the dialogue are lyrics from the songs, just by the way. Please review/ favourite if you like it. Let me know what you think? It means a lot to get feedback, you know? Thanks so much for reading.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: here's the update. I was going to leave it as a one shot but then this happened so, well, yeah. Thanks for the reviews everybody. Read and enjoy.

Tate was finding it harder and harder to stay awake. The days drifted in and out of one another, only marked with the significance that was her. He began to live for the days he saw her. She would waft into his room like a breeze. Sometimes he'd speak to her but other times, there was just silence between them but he could see it, while it was happening, she was falling in love with him.

It made him arrogant. He smirked at her love and then she'd leave and he'd wander if the whole thing had just been a dream. He'd fall asleep, sometimes for days, and wake up for his appointment with his therapist.

"I can't tell what's real any more," Tate admitted once, "Sometimes I just get so angry and I block out and other times, everything is full of light. It's like I only have two emotions: euphoria and homicide."

His therapist nodded, "The problem is that you're impulsive. You don't think things through. Your ability to empathise with the people your actions will affect is low but worse than that, you want people to know the same pain you feel. Perhaps because you constantly feel misunderstood. That's my hypothesis for why you shot all those people in your school. You wanted them to know the fear, the anger and the hatred you felt every day."

Tate stared at him, "I honestly can't remember it."

"Well, we'll have to work on that suppressed memory then."

"No," Tate shook his head, "I don't want to remember."

"You have to admit what you did, Tate."

"I'm not denying it. I just don't want to talk about it."

"Maybe next week we'll work on that."

Tate shrugged, "whatever, doctor Harmon"

"Please, call me Ben."

They confined Tate to his room after that. They bound him to the bed because, the day before, he had punched another patient unconscious for slapping Violet's ass. He didn't mind. He hated the rec room anyway. He was about to fall asleep when Violet walked into the room. He smiled at her and she blushed.

"Thank you." She said and Tate drank in her voice, "For what you did yesterday. Some of the patients can get pretty handsy but you seem nice."

"I think nice is the wrong term. Jealous and controlling, maybe."

She was too shy to look at him. She blushed viciously.

Then she suddenly looked up and smiled, "I wanted to show you how thankful I am."

"How?" He asked.

She walked up to him and let her fingertips drift over his wrist. Tate shivered at the slight contact. She ran her hand up his arm and gripped his shoulder before gracefully straddling him. He was still bound to the bed but his eyes run up her legs that showed the rim of her thigh-high stockings. Tate longed to be able to roll the silk down to her ankles.

She leaned down, running her fingers through his blonde hair, and kissed the corner of his mouth then quickly withdrew, like she was afraid to be too sentimental. She began to grind against him, slightly at first, then faster. Tate pulled at his bounds and moaned.

When she felt him harden against her thigh, she slid down and pulled down his hospital issued pants. She rubbed his cock with her palm through his boxers. Tate gasped and leaned on his elbows to watch her as she pulled down his boxers and ran her tongue down his erection. His head fell back as he moaned. She twirled her tongue around his tip, kissing his pre cum, before putting her mouth around and beginning to move.

Tate wanted to run his fingers through her hair, hold it back as she came in his mouth. He wanted to pin her down and take her like she belonged to him. He wanted her to tremble beneath him. He wanted to destroy the innocence she possessed so easily.

When he came, he briefly believed that he had died. Had she been the angel of death all along?

She swallowed, sitting up, and wiped her mouth. Tate watched her every move.

The next day, she walked into the room again. He smiled at her.

"Ready for more?" he asked.

She looked at him, "What are you talking about, Mr Langdon?"

His smile fell off his face, "Was it a dream?"

"Shh, Tate, do you want me to call someone for you?"

He looked around, confused. Already the memory of yesterday was making less sense. Why would she do that? She was a virgin, clearly. She wouldn't be that sexual around any one, least of all him. He frowned. Nothing made sense any more.

"No..." he muttered, "I just have a headache."

"Well, this should help," she said, handing him some pills. Tate reached for them, finding that he wasn't bound to the bed. Had he ever been? Had he even hit anyone that day?

"Um.. why am I being kept in my room?" he asked, trying to make sense of something.

Violet smiled compassionately, "You had a little bit of an anger spell yesterday. The paitent you hit is fine. He won't even bruise."

Tate frowned, "I could have sworn... I thought..."

"Tate, it's okay. Go to sleep."

"Will you stay here?" he asked.

"Of course I will."

An: The ending is sudden, I know. It's kind of a cliff hanger. I'll update quicker this time, I promise and the next chapter will be intense. I've got something big planned. I'm excited. I don't know if you are but yeah, thanks for reading. Please review.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: So sorry for the long update. Matric has been hellish but its holiday now so I promise to update and wrap up this story soon. Thanks for sticking with me and enjoy.

If pressed she would undress.

Tate knew this. He knew her like the back of her hand. He knew her better than his own violet mind. She sat by him that day and held his hand like he was dying and she was patiently waiting by his death bed. Tate smiled at the thought.

She bit her lip when he stroked her wrists with the tips of his fingers softly, because of his current, continuous drugged out state he felt like her skin was liquid.

"I can see you falling in love with me as if in slow motion," he said.

She wouldn't meet his eye, "I shouldn't."

"You're right. You shouldn't but you are. It's happening even as we speak."

He sat up and kissed her. He pressed his palm against her cheek. She seemed to stumble into the kiss, fumbling for his hand. Tate loved every moment of it. He loved how her fingers entwining with his hair, with his hand and how she smiled, sneakily, beneath the kiss as if he didn't know that he made her happy.

She gasped when he pulled away. She tried to seem aloof but they were, at this point, so intertwined with each other that it hardly mattered. Tate knew exactly how she felt.

He was the bloodshot veins in her brown eyes. She was blue sinew in his wrist, underneath his skin. Maybe they weren't in love but they were so irrevocably intertwined that it hardly mattered.

"I'll get you out of here," she said.

And at that moment he knew he had her.

The medicine was robbing him of his brain. He was still not sure if she was real but to find out she was imaginary at this point would be heart breaking. He would rather keep up the fantasy than to find out it was a lie.

He couldn't tell how long it had been since they had last kissed. Day and night were meaningless to him. He was counted the days by her appearance.

How long had he been insane? How long had he been in love with her?

He went to therapy as usual. He sat in the chair with his sleeves wrapped around his arms.

"I need to get out of this place," he confessed.

"You know we can't do that," said his therapist.

Tate slammed the heel of his palm repeatedly against his forehead.

"It's because I'm insane?"

"You're dangerous to yourself and other people."

"I would never hurt her."

"The nurse who loves you?"

"Yes," Tate muttered, "I would never. I would-"

"Tell me her name."

"What?" Tate said, "Haven't I already told you?" He couldn't remember.

"Tell me her name, Tate,"

Suddenly, Tate felt nervous. He wasn't sure if he wanted to do it.

"Violet," He said, articulating every syllable like there was a gun in his mouth.

His therapist looked at him then stood up and moved silently like water. He picked up a photo frame from his desk, looked at it, then handed it to Tate.

"Is this her?'

Tate looked down at the picture and saw Violet. She wasn't in her nurse's uniform. She was dressed in normal, civilian clothes. She leaned against a tree and smiled like she knew something you didn't.

Tate frowned, "I don't understand. Why do you have a picture of one the nurses?"

His therapist sighed, "That is my daughter, Violet Harmon, and she doesn't work here. You've never seen her. I can only imagine that you saw her one day when she came to see me and constructed this elaborate fantasy."

Tate shook his head, "Why would I do that?"

"You tell me, Tate. Maybe you wanted someone to love you, maybe you just didn't want to be alone."

Tate could feel his blood boiling.

"No, that's not true. She's real. I saw her. I touched her."

"The mind is a powerful thing, Tate. You have never met Violet Harmon."

Tate slammed his hand against his skull, "You're just messing with my head!"

"I'm trying to help you."

"YOU'RE LYING!"

Tate wasn't sure when the orderlies came and dragged him away. He wasn't even sure when he had hit his therapist. Ben Harmon. Yes, that was his name. Now he remembered.

He was lying in his bed, chained to the bed as usual, when Violet floated in to the room. Tate squeezed his eyes shut and whispered repeatedly, "You're not real. You're not real. You're not real."

But he could feel her hand pressed against his forehead and it occurred to him that it didn't matter if she wasn't physically here because Violet Harmon existed.


End file.
